Dead End
by GM
Summary: A grim trilogy of events. Illya finds it difficult to distinguish what is real and what isn't


**DEAD END**   
  
  


**SOLO**   
  
  


**nightmare**

  
  
  
  


by 

Gina Martin 

  
  


**Find more **NEW fanfiction: _Man from UNCLE - Hawaii Five-0 - Buffy the Vampire Slayer - SW:TPM - Sherlock Holmes -- _ **www.qnet.com/~martin5**

Email at -- martin5@qnet.com 

-- All the usual disclaimers apply -- I own nothing -- just borrowing these guys for a while -- 

Rated AAA for aaanguish   
  


* * *

**DEAD END**

  
  


_Winter 1975_

_-----------------_   
  


_Rain pelted like gravel into the slimy, cluttered, dark alley. Night covered the scars of the tenements. A violently weeping storm shaded the wastrel hole of urban plight that surrounded the forsaken space between old and tattered buildings. A cold wind swept through the Stygian corridor. A distant street lamp cast an anemic glow of yellow light into the center of the walkway where it was absorbed on the sides by the inky blackness. He huddled against a collapsed wooden crate that sprawled in splintered planks across the ground. He shivered as the polar blasts of wind, the icy fingers of rain, pounded his shoulders and head. Frigid drops slid down his neck and collar. Jacket and shirt were already soaked through and the chill permeated into his marrow. Shuddered again he folded closer to the discarded crates, his only source of meager protection. Hardly able to move, he tried to melt into the pavement, fighting for protection from the incessant barrage of the storm. Nothing helped. He was wet, cold and dying._

_The only warmth left was from the steady flow of blood that seeped from his stomach and chest and oozed onto the hands clutching his wounds. The pressure did nothing to stay the steady flow of life's fluid, nor did it ease the deep, painful ache. Yet, in a primitive instinctive need to cling to life he pressed against the wounds until his hands were numb._

_The reflection of light-on-metal glinted faintly in the weak glow of paleness just an arm's length away. The silver pen that might have been his lifeline had been smashed in two by a bullet. The black Walther, slick with rain, lay partially obscured in a muddy puddle, the slide pulled back indicating the weapon was empty. Two familiar objects attesting that he had done his best, had fought to the bitter end. And failed._

_Native, incisive intellect was still aware enough to realize the truth. He could categorically list medical cause and effect, could clinically describe the malevolent damage done by lead bullets as they tore through the Human body. Many times, in many forms, he had witnessed the tattered tissue, muscle, organs and bones as he had killed others. He'd been wounded enough times to recognize this was lethal. Facing his own mortality now as it grasped him in a frozen fist that would not give release. No miracles, no amazing rescue, no hope._

_The agile brain fleetingly traipsed over the tapestry of experience -- the places, the people -- that had been part of his life. He had filled every moment in a mad dash to do everything. His sojourn on the planet had been active, fast-paced, and brimmed with a crush of activity. There had been the continual devotion to duty, the profession he'd lived -- and ultimately would die -- for. Beyond the career, mostly he thought of the people. He had touched many lives, for good or ill, and he would leave behind a myriad of recollections, of sorrow -- and one good friend._

_That had been the way he wanted to play life. A game. High stakes. Walk a tightrope, a knife-edge of existence. Forever balanced between hazard and safety, life and death._

_Live by the gun die by the gun_

_You knew the risks when you took the job._

_Proverbs applicable to his daily walk with danger. Somehow he had never expected the cliché ending in a grimy, dank, filthy alley._

_The numbness spread cold fingers into his arms and chest. The dull miasma snaked thick tendrils around his brain. Like a pall of blackness of impending death, the edges of his mind irised to a numb void. He thought the analogy a clever one in his muddled thoughts. There was so little time left, so much of his past wasted._

_Behind he would leave many regrets. The greatest -- leaving his partner, his friend -- alone. His death would be a heavy blow to his long time friend. Right now he would welcome the last fond touch from a trusted hand, a nonsensical quip from the familiar and quick wit, a wink of reassurance from compassionate eyes. They had shared so much in the past. Now Fate denied them a last good-bye._

_Perhaps this was the best. Death -- a solo mission, he laughed ironically, and instantly groaned from the intense, deep pain that movement caused. They could not embark together this time on this final mission. The ultimate division in the path of inseparable friends. Perhaps it would be better this way. His physical pain was only temporary. His partner's hurt would last longer and cut deeper than any bodily wound. It might be easier to learn of it in the cold, austere confines of a safe headquarters rather than sharing these grim moments in this forsaken alley. If he was here the blood would stain him forever, and their last memories would be marred by the anguish and hopelessness that he could do nothing to save the dying half of the team._

_This time there would be no last minute, eleventh-hour rescue. No one knew where he was, he couldn't call for help, he could only wait for death. He would give anything for one last conversation. There was so much left to say. All the unspoken messages accumulated from years of close association, but never traded out loud. Remembrance of things past, and things never to be._

_It was a slight comfort that everything he could have said, his friend already knew, really. It had been spoken, not in words, but in long, loving laughter, in knowing silences and devilish conspiracies. And in a deep, pervading devotion that underscored a kaleidoscope of events in their lives, which bonded them to a friendship stronger than time, and life, and ultimately, he hoped, even death._

_The rain mercilessly struck him and there was no escape from the cold and damp that was now indistinguishable from within and without. He shivered; completely losing sight and feeling as a creeping numbness stole into his nerves._

_The glacial frost, the pain, the blackness swept over him in an engulfing cloak. He cried aloud through the rattling raindrops, in a last echo of pain. With his final breath, he called out a single name._

_Rivulets of rain slithering down the street were the only movements in the black alley. The solitary sound came from the clatter of drops as they pelted the wood, the pavement, and cascaded around the inert form of the dead man._   
  


* * *

  


_SEQUEL TO**:**_**_ DEAD END_**   
  
  


**_THE SOLO AFFAIR_**

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


"He's on his way to your office, Mr. Waverly." 

"Thank you," the old man replied tiredly and flipped off the communication channel. Today he felt every one of his weary, experienced years. 

He had been expecting the arrival of the agent for several hours. Certainly time enough to steel for the confrontation. Yet, Waverly still felt like a nervous schoolboy brought before the headmaster. He had always suffered a peculiar brand of nerves whenever the bearer of bad news, although such humanity never revealed itself to his agents. They would never be allowed to see such weakness in their leader. It would surprise so many -- amaze the man coming to see him now -- to know there was so much vulnerability in a chief. Within the man who sent them out to face peril. Inside the man who had sent his partner out there. To die. 

This was an unpleasant duty performed too often. As head of UNCLE NY it was his job to intimidate young agents. His stern facade an effective shield for compassion. He keenly felt every fatality; amplified because he was the man who ordered agents into danger and death. Any death was a personal blow, but this circumstance was different. He had never really expected this. There was so much life and luck . . . 

Against his own code of emotional isolation he had grown attached to a few of the agents in New York. Several of the brightest stars he had adopted in a mentor/student relationship. A forgivable mistake he had warned his operatives against countless times -- especially these two certain agents. 

It wasn't often sparkling, skilled operatives like Kuryakin and Solo came along. With some self-satisfaction he admitted he had recognized their uniqueness from the start; had seen the special, rare flash when the two worked together -- a brilliance that outshone their individual talents and set them apart from the elite of the elite of UNCLE operatives. 

The Solo and Kuryakin team was exceptional in an organization staffed with exemplary men and women. The American and Russian had become the most outstanding partnership in the history of UNCLE. Thanks to Solo's innovative bravado and Kuryakin's skilled improvisation accomplishing the impossible became routine. 

The gears of efficiency had occasionally been damaged by the close friendship, which grew beyond the average partnership between operatives. A double-edged sword, the mutual regard and affection had enhanced the skill of the team, but had also caused some unfortunate loyalty conflicts 

As subtlety as possible Waverly had tried to dissipate the friendship by giving Solo and Kuryakin separate assignments whenever possible. He wanted to maintain the skill of the partnership without the emotional complication of protectiveness for each other. 

Perhaps if they had been together this time . . . 

Simply by the law of averages the phenomenal luck had to run out. Together or separate, the two men were Human, susceptible to mistakes and -- death. Waverly could not subscribe to the theory that his decision to split the agents had lead to death. Guilt would not erase the sad truth that one of his special agents was gone. 

Waverly glanced at the clock, knew the nervous speculation was based on a natural aversion to causing pain. This news would be the most painful, devastating announcement he could deliver to the surviving team member. The solo partner. Both men, under better circumstances, would have appreciated the black humor. 

The remaining agent would, of course, accept the news with the stoic calm of his profession. The mind would rebel, would scream in anguish. For the rest of his life he would wonder if he could have saved his friend -- if only he had been there. Eventually there would be bitter acceptance. Beneath the layers of control there lived sentimentality, and beneath that, a solid core of realism. No matter how painful, death was part of their business and even the death of a friend must be endured 

The gunmetal grey doors swished open and Waverly stared at the report on his desk. It would give him time to cover any trace of emotion in his face or voice. He had already memorized the black-and-white autopsy sheet that was so stark and succinct. Irrefutable proof of death. No mistake, no second chance -- identity confirmed. 

"Reception said you wanted to see me, sir," came the quiet voice. The last calm, steady words this man would speak for some time. 

Waverly had an almost out-of-body objectivity as he glanced up at the agent. He was about to change this man's career, his future -- his life. With inadequate, starkly insensitive words he would announce the end of a brilliant partnership, the loss of an irreplaceable friend. The surviving agent would spend a lonely lifetime closeted with solitary memories of what had been -- what would never be. Pondering a tandem past in a solo future. 

"Please sit down. I'm afraid I have some unpleasant news." 

* * *

  
  


_sequel to_

**Dead End**

**and**

**Solo**   
  
  
  


* * *

**nightmare**

  
  
  
  


"No . . . Napoleon . . . no . . . no . . . . " 

Never really asleep, the quiet moanings brought Napoleon Solo to a high level of consciousness. Shivering, he pulled the blanket closer around his shoulder and broken left arm, and gazed at his mumbling companion. Illya Kuryakin was on a little bed, tossing, muttering fevered laments in the throes of a disturbing nightmare. Through the smudged, dirty window of the cheap rented room in a insignificant town in France, the moonlight was pale and splotched. Kuryakin's disarrayed, sweat-caked hair stuck to his beaded forehead, lending his skin an unhealthy, waxen sheen in the pallid light. 

"Illya." 

"I should have saved you." It was a broken whisper; painful, mournful. 

What had happened in the nightmare? One of the bad ones, Solo judged sympathetically. They had been through a rough week. Chasing around Europe for some ragtag remnants of the THRUSH Council. As an organization of crime THRUSH was mostly eliminated. Leaders, agents and administrative structures were destroyed. Some renegades had eluded UNCLE and police capture and were fleeing. For over six months Kuryakin and Solo were engaged in the sweep-up operation of the once powerful arch-enemies. The hold-outs were still dangerous, but it was just a matter of time before they were captured or killed. Many UNCLE Section Two agents worried about their future employment, but Solo believed there would always be criminals to battle on an international scale. Their work would never be done. 

Encountering assassins and traps in three countries, they finally caught up with their quarry near the Dunkirk coast. A nasty battle in a dirty alley had ended the lives of the two former THRUSH leaders. Rain and cold had accentuated the filthy, nightmarish quality of the encounter. It had been a close thing. They were lucky to be alive. The UNCLE agents had fared little better than their rivals -- Solo coming away with a broken arm, Kuryakin a knife slash to the shoulder and a nasty hit to the head. At least they were still breathing. 

After seeking medical aid in the nearest town the partners had decided to rest before returning to New York. Impossible to sleep with the sore arm -- cracked in the same spot it had been broken a few years before -- Solo had sat on the floor next to the window, leaning on Kuryakin's bed, watching his friend for signs of difficulty from the concussion. Alternately he gazed out at the streets of the quiet town as the hours slowly passed. While the Russian's wounds were not serious the doctor had worried about infection of the nasty cut. And while Illya did not have a concussion, he had a history of bumps and knock-outs and had seemed lethargic and tired. Solo -- miserable from the aches and breaks of the battle -- admitted that he, too, was not as young as he used to be. It was harder -- longer -- for both of them to recover these days. 

"I should have . . . saved you . . . . " 

Napoleon placed a gentle hand on the warm forehead and quietly whispered into the Russian's ear. "What?" 

"Nooo . . . I didn't . . . not fast enough . . . ." 

"Hey. Tovarich. I'm okay. We made it out of the alley." He firmly shook Illya's shoulder. "Can you hear me?" 

Blindly reaching out, Kuryakin grabbed onto Solo shirt, then tugged him close until his face was buried in the American's chest. "I wasn't there." His broken voice caught, nearly sobbing. "I should've have been there." 

Concerned at both the content and the depth of the nightmare, Solo firmly wrapped his good arm around his friend and held tightly to the shivering shoulders of the slighter man. 

"Illya," he soothed in a subdued breath. "Wake up sleepy head. The nightmare is over." 

Gradually the shaking eased. Then the body under his grasp stiffened. Before the Russian could bolt away, Solo calmed him with a restrained, but firm reassurance. "It's okay. We're bloody but unbowed, tovarich. Take it easy." 

Several deep breaths inhaled and exhaled from the taut chest and then Illya pulled away slightly. Uncertainly, he touched Solo's face with tentative fingertips, as though he was afraid of what his contact would tell him. 

"You're alive?" The tight words came out in a breathless hush. His fist clutched to the hair at the nape of Napoleon's neck. "You're alive." The hand was trembling and he closed his eyes, slightly shaking his head. "It was so real this time." He opened his eyes again, staring at his friend as if uncertain what memory to trust. 

Agitated by the quivering fear still plainly displayed on his friend's pale face, Solo tried a reassuring smile. "Sure. Nothing that won't mend." The horror was still reflected in the stark, pallid blue of the Russian's eyes. "It's okay, Illya. It was a nightmare." 

Kuryakin leaned his head back against his friend. "It was so real. You were in an alley -- a terrible alley. It was raining -- and the blood . . . . " 

Solo sighed heavily, trying to dispel the overpowering terror rippling through his nerves. So close. It could have been their tomb tonight. As stinking, desolate, filthy alleys, or roadsides, or side streets had nearly been their graves many times before. "Only a dream. We're both okay." 

What he saw in his friend was a reflection of the horror he had felt countless times before when Illya was captured, wounded, imagined dead. These were nightmares he had experienced himself innumerable times -- accentuated fears cultivated by the danger, the insidious threats, the continual stress from years of peril. He was humbled and devastated that Illya would take his dream-land death so hard. No harder than nightmares Solo had about losing his friend. Even with the fall of THRUSH this life just didn't get any easier. 

"It seemed . . . so . . . real . . . . " 

Kuryakin fell back to sleep. Hopefully, Solo sighed, he wouldn't remember any of this in the morning when he awoke for real. Closing his eyes, he ignored the trembling coursing along his body and prayed to whatever capricious gods watched over spies. He prayed that this would only be a nightmare. That it would never really happen to either of them. And he prayed for the faith to believe that thin shield of expectancy.   
  
  


***   
  
  


"Napoleon." 

The shaking of his world abruptly popped him awake and Solo's eyes snapped open as he drew in a sharp breath. "What!" 

A gentle touch on his shoulder stayed any other impulsive reactions. "Everything is fine. I just wanted to let you know I was going to find us some breakfast. Why don't you lay down on the bed for a while?" Solo was still numb with disorientation. Illya leaned close, concerned. "Is your arm okay?" 

"Uh -- yeah. I'm fine. Just -- it'll take me a minute." He shook his head to felicitate alertness. 

Kuryakin crouched down to meet his level. The Russian's eyes were red and puffy from sleeplessness; filled with concern for his friend. "Will you be all right here alone?" 

Startled, still climbing up to a coherent level of consciousness, Napoleon blinked, then stared at his partner. "I -- uh -- you're okay?" he narrowed his eyes to study the blond. "You shouldn't be going out alone." 

Kuryakin's eyes widened in confusion. They were suddenly wary, reflecting the horrible day and hellish night they had endured in the last grueling hours. Mirroring a shadow from the harrowing dreams. 

"I'm hungry," he snapped out impulsively. Meeting his friend's doubtful expression, he amended the brash words. "Yes -- uh -- I'm all right . . . ." He cleared his throat and his expression looked like he had tasted something sour. "I -- uh -- it was a bad night, wasn't it?" 

"Pretty bad," Solo confirmed simply. 

"I remember -- a -- little." He sighed and shook his head. "And I suppose I embarrassed myself completely," he scowled. 

"Not completely." 

Kuryakin slid down to sit on the floor next to his friend. "Fortunately, I don't remember much." 

"That's good." At the distressed expression on the pale face Napoleon smiled. "Don't worry, all your secrets are safe," he winked, then sobered. "We've been through a lot lately, tovarich. It's okay to be a little rattled. But we're all right. We made it." 

"This time." 

Solo sighed, rubbing his face, grimacing at the stubble that probably made him look as bad as he felt. "Sometimes that's all we can hope for." Times like these he wondered why he didn't retire and go into banking or something safe and simple. In the next instant the grim doubts were pushed away. He could never give up the allure of living on the edge of danger. Nor would he ever trade this rough and exciting life for one that would be absent his partner. He squeezed his friend's arm. "This is reality. Don't let the nightmares overshadow that. Our luck is still holding." 

"Often your luck is all I can hope for," Illya quietly confessed. 

Gazing out the dirty window, seeing a bright morning beyond the grime, Solo nodded. While the nightmares were always bad, they had to remember the spectres were only dreams. Imagination's worst scenario. In actuality, they were still alive. And he would do everything and anything in his power to make sure they stayed that way for a long, long time.   
  
  


**THE END**


End file.
